


Sorry Baby

by ddagent



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Erotica, F/F, Is that the polite version of stalking?, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, People Watching, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 09:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15905721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: Nine months on from Paris, and Villanelle finds herself watching Eve in a London book store. A new game is about to begin.





	Sorry Baby

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Killing Eve or any of its characters, or its settings - all belongs to the lovely folks at the BBC America.
> 
> This is my first Killing Eve fic, so I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (A brief note: this story does contain a few moments of very dubious consent. And murder. But having written female leo in love with a psychopath before, I feel it definitely works within the genre.)

You watch her through the window of the book store: dark curls pinned behind her head; a pair of glasses toyed between two fingers. Her fashion sense is still terrible; the clothes you sent long since discarded to charity shops and recycling bins. Expensive French dresses with the tags still attached tossed aside in favour of well-worn trousers and a shirt missing a button. You like to imagine she's wearing the perfume. _Villanelle_ smeared across her wrists; damp fingers pressed to the length of her throat. It’s the sort of thing she'd do. She would have to keep _something._

So do you. After all, isn't that why you still follow her?

It's late. Wednesday evening in an autumnal London. She's at a book reading; the store packed with jealous academics and eager students. Eve falls into the former, now. No more gun, no more badge, no more _licence to kill_ (as if she could). The interrogation room has been replaced by a lecture hall; spies and assassins now stories her students read. Still Eve Polastri though. Even with the divorce papers served and inked she still kept his name. You smile as you wonder, _was that for me, Eve? Did you like the way I said your name?_

"Ladies, gents, it's my pleasure to present George Callow with a reading from his latest book, _The Scent of Her._ "

You roll your eyes, scoffing loud enough to be heard by two students lingering at the back. They stare, they _glare,_ but you don't particularly care for their opinion. You're right, anyway. Callow is _trash._ Balding, middle aged; likes talking about the women (his students, no doubt) that he'd like to fuck. His wife is in the front row. Does she realise? Probably not. No one here does. They sit and they simper and someone will jerk Callow off in the back room before they drink wine and discuss _stylistic choices_ and _the theme of the virginal young woman._

He doesn't hold your attention. Eve does. You watch her as he reads. She doesn't simper and fawn. She's tapping two fingers against her thigh; against the LED screen of her phone. She wants to be anywhere else right now. _Chasing me, perhaps?_

The room is small yet packed; enough that you can stand seven feet away and remain unnoticed. It's been nine months since Paris; since you came home to find Eve in the wreckage of what was your flat. A _long_ nine months. Sometimes you imagine sitting down at the coffee shop she frequents and just engage her in conversation. _Hello, Eve, long time no see. How's things been since you stabbed me in the stomach with my own fucking knife?_ But you don't need to hear her answer. You know already. No partner. New job. New game.

Because you are both still playing this game. The rules might have changed but there are still pieces on the board. No winner. Not yet.

The reading goes on _forever._ You slump against a pillar, head thrown back; trying not to draw too much attention to yourself in your boredom. It wouldn't do to give the game away _already._ You play on your phone, ignoring the disgruntled looks of the students next to you, and take a few discreet shots of the back of Eve's head. You've dreamt about putting a gun to it; you've fantasised about sinking your hands into those deep curls and _pulling._ Maybe tonight you'll get the chance to brush your hand against them. Take a moment in this crowded room to sniff; see what shampoo _she_ uses.

The room bursts into polite applause. You bang your hands together like a seal at a wildlife park.

After the reading there are questions. Then Callow disappears for seven and a half minutes with one of the students sitting on the front row. His wife pours herself another glass of wine. You circulate, making polite conversation with clipped British vowels. All the while you watch _her._ She talks briefly with Callow but you can _tell_ she keeps her opinion to herself. Practically biting the inside of her mouth to be respectful. You keep the image locked away in the back of your mind to use later: 'how Eve Polastri looks when she's trying to keep quiet'. It's _delicious_.

But then _she_ appears.

She's young. Bright. Her blonde hair is pinned back and she's holding two of Callow's books in her arms. You hover close enough to listen to their conversation; you stare long enough to see _her_ put a hand on Eve's upper arm. You expect Eve to brush her off; politely rebuff her advances and go home alone. But she leans in. She _laughs._

You want to vomit.

You never thought you'd see the day that Eve Polastri would take a young woman home. But she does. Calls a cab and shuttles them to the small one bedroom she rents in Upper Holloway. You hail a taxi just after they leave; shove a pink fifty pound note into his hand if he'll break half the Highway Code to get you there _first._ He earns his money. You're standing outside, vaping vanilla fudge, as Eve's taxi pulls up to the kerb. Imitation is the highest form of flattery but you mock the young woman getting out with Eve: her laughter; her smile; the toss of her hair.

It's only in the dim streetlight that you realise imitation really _is_ the highest form of flattery. The student could be you. _Is_ you.

You laugh. "This changes _everything._ "

You've known for some time that Eve is still on the case. She takes weekend trips to Paris and Barcelona; follows leads fed to her by Martens' pretty boy son. At first you wondered whether Eve wanted to finish the job she started in Paris. But now you know. She doesn't want to kill you. She wants to _fuck_ you.

About _fucking_ time.

One of Eve's neighbours leaves the main door open long enough to light a cigarette. You keep your head low and play with your phone as you shoulder your way inside. A long, poorly lit staircase leads to Eve's flat. The higher you climb, the more you can hear. You stand outside her door as you listen. The clink of glassware. The pop of a cork. The soft pucker of lips meeting lips. A part of you is happy that Eve is getting laid after so fucking long. But the part of you that laid claim to her a long, _long_ time ago wants to snap that girl's neck with your bare hands.  

You still might.

Considering her previous line of work, you're surprised there is no deadbolt on Eve's door. It takes a few flicks of the wrist to have it unlocked. Eve's coat is hanging on a rack beside the entrance. You sniff it; smell the perfume lingering on the fabric. _Villanelle._ You were right. You push on into the apartment. Years of working as an assassin keeps your step light. You circle the sofa as they kiss; eyes closed and hands teasing. You even stand, sipping from Eve's wine glass; watching as your surrogate slips her tongue into Eve's mouth.

The glass is back on the coffee table by the time they part; the mimic whispering she just needs to 'freshen up'.

She takes a piss. Jeans pulled down to her ankles; the thin silver chain jangling on her wrist as she wipes herself. You're sitting in the bath tub, hand holding up your chin as you wait for the right moment. It comes sooner than you think. After washing her hands, the mimic explores Eve's medicine cabinet. Touches bottles and boxes and _hmms_ over tablets and creams. Then her eyes linger over the bottle of _Villanelle._ It's the same bottle you gave Eve all those months ago. Little is left. The mimic opens the stopper and daps some on the inside of her wrist.

"That's not for you."

Her eyes widen; she drops the bottle. It fractures against the cold tile. She goes to scream but you get there first. One hand clapped over her mouth; another around her throat. You squeeze until you feel her go limp. You don't stop until her spinal column shifts. Her body crumples at your feet. You tut at her corpse.

"Stealing is _wrong._ "

You leave the bottle where it is. Finger comb your hair and rinse mouthwash between your teeth; shuck your clothes until you're in nothing more than a blouse and lace panties. One eye peers through the crack in the doorway as you ascertain Eve's position. She's in the bedroom giving herself a pep talk. She's lost her trousers, too; standing there in nothing more than plain black knickers and an oversized jumper. _Cute._ Your eyes trail over lean limbs and dark curls and you'd give anything to throw Eve on that unmade bed and fuck her until she screamed.

But that's not the game you're playing. 

Light footsteps take you across the apartment to the bedroom. Eve is still arguing with the wall; forehead pressed against the plaster. You play a children's game as you approach. Every step makes your heart beat a little harder. With every step she could turn around and then you'd lose. But she doesn't turn around. You slide a hand around her waist and press your lips to her shoulder.

"Close your eyes," you say softly; mimicking the mimic.

She does. Her throat swallows once, twice; her frame tense. "Sorry, I'm just–I'm just not used to this. I've never done anything like this before."

"It's okay," you whisper; moving the waterfall of dark curls aside to brush your lips over the shell of her ear. "I know what I'm doing."

Her breath catches, and you know what she's thinking. _Could it be? Surely not._ Your lips move across her neck, tasting _Villanelle_ on your tongue. You press teeth into the curve of her throat and she gasps; head thrown back and legs squeezed tight. How easy it would be to rip her throat out. How trusting she is of a stranger in the dark. You keep kissing her neck; fingers toying with the dark curls. There'll be a mark on her throat the authorities won't be able to explain away.

Your hand slides across the knit of her jumper, lifting it up ever so slightly. Her skin is warm and soft and you tease circles as she writhes against the front of you. Her eyes are still closed. She's playing the game _very_ well. Either she's afraid of finding out it _is_ you, or afraid of finding out it's not. You graze her thigh; slide your fingers across her cunt. Her knickers are damp and she bucks against your fingertips.

"Vi…Vi…" She stops. Her forehead bounces off the wall. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," you say; all English syllables and Russian vowels. Eve tenses as your tongue licks a stripe along the length of her neck. "I love it when you say my name."

Eve struggles in your arms and you very much remember what happened the last time you were this close. You toss her on the bed. She scrambles forward, reaching for the nightstand, but you get there first. One leg pressed between hers; two hands pinning her to be mattress. Eve is at your mercy. Fear and arousal race through her; an intoxicating cocktail. She looks _incredible._ Tussled curls and chest heaving; nipples erect and knickers _soaked._ You let go of one wrist and place your hand around Eve's throat.

You don't squeeze. Not yet. "Hello, old friend."

" _Villanelle_." Eve wriggles. She just presses your thigh further against her clit. "Where's Clara?"

  
"She went for a long nap. Very tired. She broke your perfume." You lean down; smell yourself once more against Eve's skin. " _Unacceptable_."

Sitting up, you take both hands and slide them over Eve's stomach. Fingers dance over bare skin. You have a scar there, now; bikini season a thing of the past. Eve blinks back tears. She expects the knife. You can't blame her for that. Leaning down, you let your lips linger against her bare abdomen. A kiss here, a kiss there. Then teeth, nipping at the flesh. Eve gasps and its half pleasure, half pain. She'll have bruises there for days. She'll stare at them in the mirror and picture this moment and you imagine she'll sink two fingers into herself.

You slide her knickers down her legs. They're damp in your hand as you ball them up. You smile as Eve stares, confused. "You're not going to—"

 _Kill me? Fuck me?_ You laugh. "Sorry baby. Not tonight."

It takes Eve twenty seconds to find another pair of knickers she can wear. It takes you fifteen to run across the flat, grab your own jeans, and shimmy your way out of the bathroom window. You hear Eve scream as she finds the mimic on the bathroom floor. She'll call Martens rather than the police. It won't be until later – much later – that Eve will reflect on what happened tonight. You don't wait. You touch yourself in the alley outside her flat; blonde hair grating against the brickwork as you come.

You're playing a new kind of game together. Round one goes to you.   


End file.
